


The Battlefield

by ScienceofObsession



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, In the vein of not making sense, drabble-ish, warzones are sexy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/pseuds/ScienceofObsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been said that Sherlock is a battlefield. Dust and blood, adrenaline and death. In your bones, insistent. All this John knows, so much more than a metaphor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battlefield

It is said that Sherlock is a battlefield. And oh, the truth in those words. So much more than the dominance and superiority, beyond the disregard and perpetual motion. Not simile – not _is like_ a battlefield.

 

 _Is_ a battlefield.

 

He is dust. Settling in crevasses and worrying sensitive skin as you run. Baked and burning in the sun, chilled in moonbeams. In your boots and folds, persistent. Grating, yet earthy. As if you’ve gone back to your primordial roots, a basic creature. Where you belong.

 

He is chaos **.** Utterly unpredictable, and delicious for it. Mad dashes and predictions followed by the crash of _what the fuck just happened_ and _I’ll follow you anywhere oh captain my captain._ A hurricane of intense purpose on a rambling, uncharted path.

 

He is blood. Pulsing, never resting. Silent only in trauma, signaling harm. A necessary vessel for oxygen and fuel, carrying power to phantom limbs. A passionate red that sticks under your fingernails and begs scrubbing (yet you leave it, a badge to carry with you).

 

He is machinery. Unnatural, crushing in the pursuit of prey. Rotor wash tearing at your clothes. The sensual click of a chamber, the black powder whirlwind of a bullet spinning, on the hunt. Shrapnel under your skin. A metallic taste on the tongue, pushing inside your mouth with hot insistence, inarguable. An inexorable pull towards mechanic dependence.

 

He is death. Sweeping cloak and drama, floating above the baselines of emotion and motive and want and _need_. A higher power, certain and unmovable, reading plans off a list nobody else can see. A trail of gravestones, silent markers in his wake. Breadcrumbs.

 

He is adrenaline. The unspeakable highs and crashing dives. The uncertainty of when your next sip will come and the sensual yearn for it. A bottled magic, accessible only to the few who follow him. Power drawn from a deep and protected source, worthy of worship.

 

John’s tremors cease. This is his battlefield; this is the war he was created for. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what this is exactly, but I like it. Maybe will let it languish here while I think of what else I can do with it. Thanks for reading, as always!


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